ANOTHER ART

The art of dancing isn't hard to master.
His hand against her backbone guaranteed
to steer her pliant body slower, faster.

His left hand is the rudder, does not ask her,
but commands. So his advance is her retreat.
The art of dancing isn't hard to master.

A wry acceptance is all she can muster.
She chafes at being led and wants to lead,
swaying her pliant body slower, faster.

She feels him hesitate, and music clasps her.
He reasserts his grip; she won't be freed.
The drill of dancing isn't hard to master.

She's shocked herself at how this role can cast her
back through the years, his young, compliant bride.
He steers his rigid body slower, faster.

She knows her will to fly is mostly bluster;
she's bound to stiffen, too, if she were freed.
The art of dancing isn't hard to master.
They glide their aging bodies slower, faster.

Mary Makofske's work has appeared recently in Zone 3, Louisville Review, Oberon, Paterson Literary Review, and Asheville Poetry Review, where it received third place for the William Matthews Poetry Prize.